


And when the lights start flashing (like a photobooth)

by tangerinick



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Language, Getting Together, M/M, cool that's a tag, for TEOU — Klance edition, idk anymore there's dancing and a minor misunderstanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 19:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17065775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinick/pseuds/tangerinick
Summary: “Dance with someone,” Keith repeats, muttering to himself.“Dance with me?” Low in his ear, as smooth as silk sheets, a calloused palm settling on his hip.Keith jumps, and rolls his eyes. The hand burns through the thin, sweaty fabric of his shirt like a brand, but Keith finds himself welcoming the heat. “Lance.”“Loverboy extraordinaire, at your service.”





	And when the lights start flashing (like a photobooth)

There’s a red cup in his hands, plastic thin underneath his sweaty fingers and weighted with—something. Transparent. Keith doesn’t actually know. He grabbed the first cup available off the dirty, paint-splattered table, just to have something to hold, like a child clutching a stuffed toy for extra comfort. It could be water, it could be alcohol. But Keith isn’t thirsty yet, not like the tumultuous crowd whirling in front of him like a giant beast of swinging limbs and close, close close: so it’s not like it matters. 

A warm body slides away from the mass of bodies and crowds into him. Keith tears his eyes away from the flashes of blue and purple shimmering off messed hair and glittery shirts. The room is already hotter than Keith would like, sticking to him like a second skin. He should’ve moved to the glass door on his far right, the only escape for the radioactive heat shed by the dancing mob. 

“You should come dance!” Matt leans into his ear to yell, hand gripping tight on his shoulder to stop himself from falling over in a tangle of not-so-sober feet. 

“Later,” Keith says back, voice gravelly. Matt cocks his head, and starts popping his hips to the beat of the steady bass as Keith musters another reply: his stream of thought gets interrupted by the urgent music that seeps into his bones like syrup, catching his heart in a rhythm. “Pidge did a great job with the set-up.”

“She’s a natural, my sister.” Matt nods proudly. “Not a single glitch in the tech.”

“Shiro’s still on drunk-duty?”

“Yeah, just saw him shepherd a crying girl into an Uber.” Matt takes a step back, dodging with a wobbly sort of grace to grab a cup from one of the tables. “Listen, stick around. I’m the DJ as soon as I sober up. Hunk’s got to enjoy his night as well, right?”

Keith’s gaze drifts to Hunk’s towering figure at the far end of the room, a high set of bulky shoulders over waves of the rise-and-fall of heads. As Keith watches, Hunk ties the remaining strands of hair into a bun, pastel bandana wrapped tightly around his upper arm, bouncing on his feet and readjusting something on a laptop. Hunk has multitasking down to an art. 

“I can’t believe your parents are cool with this.”

“They know we handle this shit responsibly, it’s chill. Cheers,” Matt laughs, unexpectedly bumping his drink against Keith’s. Liquid rocks out and spills down his wrist. Keith goes to lick it off, but turns up his nose when he smells the strong smell of the whiteboard cleaner his dad used to use. He wipes it off on his jeans hurriedly. 

“I’ll grab another one.” Matt switches around his cup for what is presumably water. Keith sends him a grateful look. “Enjoy your night.  _ Dance  _ with someone.” Matt wiggles his eyebrows and winks, sauntering back and melting into the crowd like goo. He’s gone before Keith can blink. 

“Dance with someone,” Keith repeats, muttering to himself. 

“Dance with me?” Low in his ear, as smooth as silk sheets, a calloused palm settling on his hip.

Keith jumps, and rolls his eyes. The hand burns through the thin, sweaty fabric of his shirt like a brand, but Keith finds himself welcoming the heat. “Lance.”  

“Loverboy extraordinaire, at your service.” Lance removes his touch and sweeps into a bow, arms spread so wide he almost hits the gritty brick wall Keith leans into. He’s even more flamboyant than usual, obviously tipsy and flirty as he winks quickly, settling in close to Keith while keeping that tantalizing distance between them—the distance Keith wants to close. Lance makes Keith feel like he’s standing at the edge of a clear-as-day, bottomless blue hole. But Keith likes swimming, and he never claimed to be afraid of a challenge. 

There’s a spark between them, but they’ve been dancing around the electricity for months now, challenging the other to take a jump into the unknown. It’s not fear that’s stopping Keith from making that first move, that first step, that first kiss—it’s caving in, being the first to fall before the other. Keith may not be afraid of a challenge, but he’s also not one to back down. Lance rivals him in all ways, including that.

Keith lets himself grin, sly as a half-moon, for the first time that night. “You sound awfully confident.”

“Best dancer in my family, my abuela always says.”

“Prove it,” Keith spits like tempered fire, still smiling despite. The demand hangs in the air between them, suspended. Lance turns it over in his mind, thoughts obviously moving behind those dark eyes as he surveys Keith with the same old calculating gaze. Then, something invisible lights up Lance’s face, spreading out a glittering sort of joy that makes Keith feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  _ This boy _ .

“Come here.” Lance pulls Keith towards him, closing that insurmountable gap, before stepping away almost immediately after until Keith feels like there’s an elastic band between them, pushing and pulling both of them until they’re at the edge of the dancing crowd. Lance tugs him all the way in, never letting go with that burning grip. Keith feels more than sees the close crowding of shoving bodies around them, thrumming to the same pounding rhythm; his eyes are focused on Lance, and on Lance only. 

“I’ve never danced like this before,” Keith confesses. 

Lance’s face is suddenly close—too close, and for a split second, all Keith can think is that  _ this is it _ . This is when he wins this ageing battle between them.

“Just move,” Lance tells him over the din. He smells like cheap cologne, fresh vanilla shampoo, and cider. “It’s not rocket science.”

“Feels like it,” Keith mutters, loud enough for Lance to hear. 

Lance rolls his eyes, tugs Keith even closer than before. Keith can feel the strong, restless lines of his body, the brush of bare skin. “Follow my lead.”

This time, Lance doesn’t let go—he moves. And holy fuck, does he move. 

Lance seems to dance unlike anyone also in the room, unafraid and unconscious and incredibly self-assured. He knows what he looks like, and he knows that all eyes on him, including Keith’s, find him desirable. How could someone not, when Lance rolls his whole body, shoulders to chest to stomach to hips to legs, as sinuous as a cresting wave. There’s sweat dripping down his temple and Lance’s hair is mussed and wild as he swings it from side to side, dipping his chin and looking coyly up at Keith through his eyelashes. Keith can’t tear his eyes away, to captivate to even move. It doesn’t even occur to him to feel self-conscious about the way he stares; how could he when surrounded by someone like Lance. 

There a hint of a distance left between them, almost on purpose. Keith thinks that if he even touches Lance now, he’ll spontaneously combust on the spot. So that distance, it feels like a dare. If Keith can close it, can show Lance what he’s worth, he’ll have the upper hand again. 

“C’mon, pretty boy,” Lance says, throwing his head back in laughter. “Show me those funky moves.”

Keith sets his jaw and focuses on the thrum of the music, the ebb and flow of the crowd around him. Localizing the beat, he starts to rock back and forth. Keith looks mechanical and he knows it, as still and clunky as a rusty, wind-up robot. He tries somehow tipping his shoulders, shaking his head, but it’s in vain. Keith is a shitty dancer; he hasn’t done this before for a reason. Keith isn’t even looking at Lance anymore, a little humiliated, but he can sense the mirth that must be radiating off Lance in waves. The smug satisfaction that Keith can’t even keep up. Keith can taste the failure on his tongue. 

It’s a bolt of electricity shooting down his spine at the sudden warmth, the sticky heat of another body pressed close against his back, a tentative hand back on his hip. 

“Tell me if you want me to move away,” Lance offers, voice soft enough that Keith wouldn’t feel guilty for saying  _ yes _ —but this is Lance, so he quickly shakes his head  _ no _ . Keith didn’t know how much he craved the closeness of their bodies until it happened. He does his best to hide how he wipes his palms on the rough denim of his jeans. So this is happening. Okay.

“What do I do?” Keith asks, craning his head around so he can look a gently shifting Lance at least partly in the eyes. 

Lance snorts. “First of all, you have hips. Use them.” Keith tries to what he says, but Lance quickly drums his fingers, stopping him. “You’re just shifting. Throw it out a little.”

Keith rolls his eyes, sighing. “Like this,” he bites out, and over-exaggerates the movement so much he knocks into a guy next to him. Keith can feel Lance’s giggle on his neck.

“Closer. Wait, let me show you.” Keith jumps as Lance places a second hand on the other side of his hip, just a little higher until his thumb just slips under Keith’s shirt, touching bare skin. Keith tries to follow as Lance pushes him left and right, pulling his body into a sway. “There you go. You’re flexible, let loose a little. You’re focused too much on  _ dancing _ ; try just moving to the music. Don’t be afraid to jump if that’s what you feel like.”

“I feel stupid,” Keith admits grumpily. “This is stupid.”

“You’re not having fun.” Lance grins, and slides back around Keith until they’re facing each other. The crowd has closed around them a little; Lance is definitely standing closer than before, and Keith cautiously holds himself away from bumping into him. The air feels almost claustrophobic, dark and heady and  _ loud _ . “That’s why.”

Keith  _ tries _ . He really does. He just can’t—it’s not—he should give up. 

But then Lance hangs a heavy hand over his shoulder and steps in just as close as before: except it’s different, now that they’re actually face to face. Keith’s whole vision is filled with Lance, Lance smiling so wide he has dimples, the curl of hair on his forehead, the sharp angle of his jaw, and deep, deep eyes that shimmer. Lance’s body is painted red, blue, purple under the lights, dancing over his immaculate skin like crazy until all Keith can really think of is him. Lance. 

Keith’s had enough of waiting. Fingers trembling, he lifts up a hand to press it to the side of Lance’s face, as softly as he can under the circumstances, sliding it down his cheek, jaw, neck, until it rests on Lance’s shoulder, mirrored. Lance’s eyes go wide. Keith leans in. He sees Lance do the same. 

A hard blow hits Keith in the back and everything spins. For a split second he’s confused as to what’s happening and why everything is no longer Lance, before realising he’s falling and crashing spectacularly into the people next to him. Keith is pretty sure he whacks someone in the face with the force of his flailing limbs. He lands, sprawled with a large  _ thump _ , several feet and legs digging in as everyone tries to get away or catch his disastrous fall. 

“Keith!” Two large, disembodied hands reach out and hook him under the arms, pulling him out of the maze of legs. Hunk lifts him up high like a stubborn cat, and gently deposits him back on his feet. Everyone around them goes back to dancing, although they have to move out of the way for Hunk’s imposing torso. “Sorry about that, buddy, got a little too enthusiastic. Are you guys having fun?”

“Hunk.” Lance’s voice isn’t curt, but it’s something close. Hunk snaps his head around to look Lance in the eyes, and they have the type of silent conversation childhood friends can have: a lot of grimacing and side-eyeing and micro-movements in the eyebrows. 

“Ooooh,” Hunk says. “I get it.”

“I’m going to get some water” Keith mutters, and fights his way out of the crowd. He can hear Hunk calling his name, but nothing from Lance.

The water is only partly the truth. He’s thirsty—no, not in that way, although maybe a little—but he’s also massively ashamed. It took Hunk accidentally breaking the moment for Keith to realise the stupidity of the situation, of the idiot he’s been over the past months, challenging Lance as he waited for a moment like this. Reality hits like a brick, socking him in the stomach harder than Hunk hit him and bringing a burning flush to his cheeks. His ears are on fire, and his knees are weak. What on  _ earth _ was he thinking? Okay, maybe Lance seemed interested. But this is Lance. 

Lance-that-Keith-is-very-attracted-to, but also Lance that flirts with anything with legs. It’s Lance’s primary way of communication. So if they had ended up macking on the dance floor, then what? Keith wants more than just kissing—he really, really likes Lance in a way that doesn’t come by often. He likes Lance’s smile, he likes how Lance makes him feel like the only person in the room by just looking at him, he loves how much Lance cares about everyone enough to try and bring a smile to their face. He hates how Lance degrades himself sometimes, making little offhand comments about how he’s unworthy of certain things, because Lance is worth so, so much. Keith loves how they work together, two opposing magnets that still find themselves somehow attracted to each other. An impossibility. 

Keith doesn’t doubt that Lance finds him hot—it’s practically scripted into their banter. But Keith is sure that if that’s all it is to Lance, he’s be pretty destroyed about that. It’s a risk, and he can’t seem to tell if it’s worth taking it.

Keith veers off course from the refreshments table and darts towards the exit. He has to leap over several sprawled teenagers to do so, but when he throws open the door, rushes up the stairs, shoulders his way through the living room—how are there even more people upstairs, what the hell, Pidge?— and opens the patio doors to go outside, the cold stings on his bare skin. The night air envelops him almost immediately, and Keith walks across the Holts’ back garden lawn without thinking, until he hits the edge. Only then does Keith allow himself to think again, far away enough from the lights and the sound and the heat and the crowd and far away enough from Lance. He lets himself fall down with a muffled thump, not even caring about the stain the grass is going to leave on his jeans. Keith needs air.

For a minute, he lets himself breathe. Breathe deeply, breathe fully, breathe until his lungs burst with frigid air and the roof of his mouth feels dry. Breathe until shivers travel up his spine, until his skin is raised with goosebumps. Keith slumps down, rubbing up and down his arms for warmth. Keith should've at least gotten a jacket in his panic to escape: in his panic to  _ get out,  _ to put some distance between him and that knee-shaking feeling. He doesn't realize he can hear the muffled thrum of the music until it suddenly becomes loud and clear.

"Keith!" Lance shouts from the porch, closing the door with a slam. The music mutes itself again. Lance's face is starkly highlighted under the porch lights, heavy shadows and high cheekbones as sharp eyes peer into the dark. Keith doesn't move—he's so up in the air about all this that he doesn't know if he wants Lance to find him or not. Keith watches Lance's careful gaze sweep over the expanse over the garden, back-and-forth, searching for him; obviously unused to the dark. When that doesn't happen, Keith looks on, aghast as Lance crumples against the wall of the house, shoulders falling as he rubs at his temple. "Shit," Keith hears Lance mutter.

Something heavy twists in his stomach, ugly, pulling his intestines into a knot. But it's the unexpected regret that lumps in his throat which makes up his mind and forces him to call out, "Lance."

Lance's head snaps up so fast it's almost comical. "Keith?"

"Over here," Keith says, voice only just traveling over the expanse between them.

Lance stalks across the back garden, stride strong and confident, although he falters when he finally catches sight of Keith slouched in the grass. Now that Lance is closer, Keith can see the high flush on his cheeks, even in the dark night, and the heavy bundle that he drops unceremoniously into Keith's lap. "You forgot your jacket."

"Thanks," Keith whispers, pulling it on shakily. He drops his eyes to stare at his shoes—dirty, scuffed, covered in smudged red marker—unable to look at Lance.

When Lance speaks, it feels like he's letting his words hurtle down to an unavoidable conclusion. "Are we going to talk about what just happened?" Keith can't find anything to say, so he doesn't. Lance is the talker—that’s the way they work. Lance engages him, Keith bites back. "Oh, come on. Don't give me the silent treatment."

"I'm thinking," Keith says. 

"What is there to think about?" Lance groans and throws his head back, obnoxiously pushy. "We had a moment,  _ you _ were going to kiss  _ me _ ," he demands, poking the toe of his sneakers against Keith’s jeans. 

Keith breaks out of his silence and looks up quickly, annoyed. " _ You _ were going to kiss me  _ too _ ," he points out accusingly. 

"Only because you—you know what, not important. What matters is that for a second, you were planning on it. I've been wondering for months if you were interested, shit, Keith. Months,” Lance emphasizes. “And I didn't want to force it too much, because you seem pretty scared about all of this."

"I thought I was obvious," Keith says. "You were."

"I know I was,” Lance laughs. “But you weren't responding, so I thought you were just humoring my flirting."

"So..." Keith pauses. He wants to ask, god, does he want to ask. There’s a feedback loop of words circling through his head;  _ Lance is interested, Lance likes me, Lance wants to _ —"If I'd kissed you back there, you would've—"

"Made out with your face?” Lance winks. “Totally. You're super hot, damn it."

It hits Keith square in the chest, a blunt projectile to the solar plexus. His chest might collapse. "Oh."

"Oh?" 

"It's—it’s nothing,” Keith chokes out, trying to school his face into something casual. He angles his face away though, sure he’s unsuccessful. 

Lance sinks into a crouch, long limbs at jaunty angles. Thin fingers wrap around Keith’s jaw, hot to the touch, pulling him eye-to-eye with Lance. There’s a harsh pull at the corners of Lance’s mouth, an uncharacteristic seriousness in his eyes. "That wasn't a  _ nothing _ type of  _ oh _ . Words, Keith, please. Use them. They're very practical."

"You think I'm hot?"

Lance hesitates as if it's a trick question. His eyes flit away, only for a second. "Yes. Are you fishing for compliments?"

"No, I'm—I just—That isn't—” Keith takes a deep breath. _Words_. It feels like the edge of a cliff; if he does this, there’s no going back despite the outcome. But then again, Keith forces himself to admit, he passed the point of no return the moment Lance pressed them together under the stifling music, two bodies aligned as one and his hand like a brand on his Keith’s thigh. Keith finds himself speaking quickly; voice wavering and fragile, yet underlined with iron strength of will, like a trembling silver spider web in the night breeze. “That's not my only reason for wanting to kiss you." 

Realization colors Lance’s face like a blush, mouth hanging gaping for a millisecond before it snaps closed. "Okay, that's not what I meant. You're worried that I'm only attracted to you... physically?"

Keith can only nod. Lance’s face is suddenly too close. Keith can count every eyelash, see his sharpened smile, trace the tiny, slim scar that splits under his lip. He can’t breathe: every inhale feels being underwater, blue light flickering over skin. 

"Because that's not the case," Lance presses. "Sure, you've got an ass to die for and a great smile, but you're also loyal, persistent, brave, and more importantly, you don't take my shit. Believe me, physical is not the only level on which I'm attracted to you."

Keith finds the room to think again. He’s acutely aware of the grass under his curled hands, the dirt on his knees, his whole body angled towards Lance like a mirror to his mind. "That's."

"Good?" Lance prompts, eyes wide and earnest, all the calm Keith needs. 

Keith thinks about saying  _ yes _ . But words have never been his strong suit. 

Lance’s mouth is surprisingly cool, lips soft against his chapped ones, the press and drag and pause unhurried like they have all the time in the world, leaned into one another in the dark of the night, interrupted by the scattered lights of a party neither of them can find themselves to care about. It’s Keith reaching out like Lance is air, reciprocating the touch and slipping his hand into the soft hair at the base of Lance’s neck, remembering how to breathe. 

Keith pulls away gently, Lance chasing after him until they collided again. Keith reattempts, only managing a little distance as Lance exhales quickly, air hot against his cheek. “Bet you’re happy I suck at dancing,” Keith whispers. Lance chuckles, chest shaking against Keith’s. 

“You won’t believe how happy I am.”

  
  



End file.
